Memories of an Elephant

They called her ‘The Elephant’. It was almost a nonsensical name, because she didn’t actually have a very good memory. In fact, if she hadn’t been able to keep memories in jars she’d probably never have remembered anything at all. She never showed more than a glimpse of recognition, of familiarity. She just stayed as she was. She always sat at one end of the bar, cradling a glass of something or other, and her jar perched neatly on the corner. People would go up to her every once in a while. They knew where to find her, because she was always in the same place. Sometimes they would give her a memory, and a couple of dollars. She’d tuck the memory into the bar, screw the top back on, and then use the money they just gave her to get another drink. Sometimes, they’d take a memory. She’d wrench the lid off of the jar, pluck out the memory and hand it over wriggling like a little pink larva, and then use the money they just gave her to buy herself another drink.

Things went on like this for a long time. People came and went, and they stored their most important memories with the Elephant. Often they’d give her memories they never wanted back, and those would curl into the bottom of the jar and stay there. Some people had a tradition of coming back for a memory regularly, on the anniversary of a birth or a death. They’d hold the things in their palms right there in the bar, the love and pain and glory seeping into their skin, and then they’d hand them back. The Elephant shoved the memories back into the jar with no expression, and the poor little things would press against the glass. She never flickered with anything when she passed memories back and forth – not despair or hope, not disgust or joy. For all that she grabbed and dropped memories, not an iota of their power seemed to touch her.

This all continued for years until a strange man came through town. That wasn’t uncommon, as it was a small town. He came just for the Elephant, though. He’d heard of her, and he went straight to the bar in the late afternoon. The man walked to the Elephant where she sat at her barstool, and he handed her a wad of cash. Her eyebrows lifted, but she just looked at him. That was the closest to surprise (or anything else) that had ever lit her face for anyone to see who remembered. The strange man said, “I want the jar.” The Elephant looked at him for a long time.

She said, in a voice that was scraping her dusty throat, “Why? I don’t know you. You’re not from here. I don’t remember people real well, but I don’t know your face at all. What do you want with my memories?”

The strange man smiled. “I just do,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m a circus performer, or a sociopath. A writer, perhaps. A storyteller. That would make sense. I’m an insurance salesman and an astronaut and a government official. It doesn’t matter. Tell yourself something. I want the jar. Please”

The Elephant stared at the man, and his smile did not waver. The bartender poured himself a measure of scotch. The Elephant blinked. A man at a table in the corner coughed. Finally, she pulled the jar over to her and twisted off the top. Her eyes were fixed on the man before her. She drew out one slim memory and curled her fingers around it. She handed the jar to the man, and he screwed the lid on. The Elephant’s face crumpled, just slightly, in what might have been sorrow. The man nodded to her, and murmured something. She nodded back. With that, the stranger walked out of the bar with half the town’s memories in his hand, and he never returned. The Elephant stood up and left, abandoning her half-empty drink. The door swung shut behind her, bringing a thrill of cold wind into the musty bitter air of the bar.

They say that the Elephant died, not too long after. She certainly didn’t show up at the bar anymore. Perhaps her neighbors stopped seeing her light flare on at night, and the post office piled high with catalogs and bills that had overflowed her mailbox. It’s more likely that people stopped seeing her, with her ever-present jar, and so they assumed she had gone. It might as well be true, because they wouldn’t even know if she were among them. Nobody remembers what she looked like.


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